


Small

by Anonymous



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, batfamily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 10:45:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11183499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Dick just needs some times alone. Pavlov would have understood. Or at least the dog would have.(In which the cracks in Bruce and Dick's relationship begin to appear.)





	Small

Dick was in the closet.

Literally.

He’d shoved himself into a corner under the shoe rack hanging from the lower shelf. His golf clubs (which really shouldn’t be in here, Alfred insisted) pressed against his bruised ribs. Dick has always had bruised ribs. He was an acrobat that couldn’t sit still. Now he was a vigilante that couldn’t say no. He didn’t mind the pain. Not really.

No, what really hurt was that weird, slushy, aching feeling in his chest. His throat felt raw, like he had screamed or vomited or done something equally horrendous.

But he hadn’t.

Nope.

Dick was in the closet.

He shifted his left foot, tucking it under him. He winced when it hit the shoe rack.

Sighing, he surveyed the closet with the little view he had.

He grimaced.

So much crap.

It wasn’t like this before. He hadn’t had a lot. But enough.

There was always enough.

Guess that’s what happens when you lose one thing; you gain another.

No stuff, but affection.

No affection, but stuff.

Dick thought that was kind of unbalanced.

Not that he was a shrink or life coach or psychologist. But he was fourteen, and pretty bright for his age. Pretty bright for a human being, actually. He was entitled to a least some independent thought and observance.

Right?

Well, whatever. If not, too late now.

Something like his heart groaned as if it was clogged from a double whip chocolate frappuccino with sprinkles. It swished back and forth like a sea serpent’s tail.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the slugged sound.

His parent’s trailer–his former home–had been smaller than this closet. It was small, and squishy, and sometimes it felt like it was full of jutting elbows. But that’s what made it fun. All of them there, existing with each other. Harmonizing their breaths.

What’s that word where organisms benefit from each other?

‘Symbiosis, Dick,’ Bruce’s voice echoed in his head. ‘Honestly.’

Dick felt ashamed for a quick minute, then realized he was apologizing to the Imaginary Bruce. The Mind Bruce. The Bruce That Wasn’t Real.

Kind of stupid to apologize to something that didn’t exist.

Besides, why does HE always have to feel guilty? So he forgot the word for a quick second, would you chill out?

He was still arguing with something that didn’t exist.

Ugh.

He stuck a hand through his hair. It felt nice to be pressed against the wall. To be squished. To kind of be embraced till he was slightly out of breath.

Reminded him of his parents.

The truth is, he noted as he slid his hands up and down the cool walls, is that pain doesn’t go away. It’s always there. You just forget about it. But when you remember, it’s horrible and red and black and crooked necks and the smell of freesia and and and–

Well.

Let’s just not talk about it.

He let out another sigh, curling into a tighter ball.

In the silence, he could hear the sound of water.

_Drip_.

_Drip_.

_Drip_.

He had left the bathroom sink slightly on.

Approximately one liter will be lost by the end of the day.

Oops.

He’ll fix it. At some point. When he’s not so choked and is sure that his stomach won’t roll unto his tongue.

He’ll fix it.

Maybe just not right now.

* * *

 

Dick always wondered about Pavlov’s dog. Who was he before the experiment? Had he been the rambunctious sort of dog that had dirt on its snout and always smelled like grass? Or the sleepy dog in the study, that turned a philosophical eye whenever you entered the room?

He wasn’t even sure if Pavlov’s dog had a name.

That, he decided, was quite cruel. If you’re going to experiment on a being, at least give it the decency of a name. Personal bias be damned.

Well.

He’d name him.

Sobaka.

(That was really just the word "dog" in Russian. That was the only Russian word Dick remembered. He thought, distantly, of a memory as to why. But it was too misty to figure out.)

Dick gazed down at his dinner.

He wondered if Sobaka would like his dinner.

Bruce wasn’t looking at him.

No big deal. If he was looking at him, it probably would be because Dick was in trouble.

Dick didn’t get in a lot of trouble anymore.

Except that time last week when the school janitor caught him scrunched up in a locker.

No one had put him there. He just needed some Small Time. Some “Remember Who You Are, Simba” Time. Some "It’s Okay" Time.

It was great until the principal flatly told him he could not play in lockers because they were tools.

Barbara, sixteen with glossy hair and painted nails, had discovered him in the lockers a couple times. But she hadn’t said anything, just stuffed a protein bar through the slots. She had laughed a bit, but it wasn’t a snotty laugh. It was a real laugh, the one people make when they are genuinely delighted about something.

Well.

That was over, because hiding in lockers is Unacceptable.

Not hiding, technically. Just sitting.

But whatever.

Dick glanced over at his guardian. What did Bruce think of Pavlov? What did Bruce think of Sobaka?

Poor Sobaka. Manipulated into expecting treats. Maybe he thought he had to earn it somehow.

“Bruce?”

The man’s cold blue eyes met the boy’s.

“Yes?”

Dick suddenly felt a bit silly. “Did you ever have to earn anything?”

“I…” The billionaire shook himself. “Why?” he questioned, ever the detective.

Dick shrugged. “Pavlov.”

He could tell Bruce was resisting rolling his eyes. He was doing that a lot lately. Must have been Dick’s Teenaged Attitude that was helping that along.

Dick let out a soft breath. It wasn’t like he meant to be snarky. He was just tired, that’s all. Tired of trying to earn things.

Bruce never touched him any more.

Not even in the offhand, “where are you going, chum?” or “let me fix your tie.”

He didn’t really mind. He wasn’t a child anymore, after all.

He just wished that it wasn’t because of jealousy. He saw it glitter in Bruce’s eyes. Saw him want to yell, want to force all the painful memories back into Dick’s head so Bruce wouldn’t be alone. Bruce thought Dick smiled and laughed because he was over it. Over all the gashing pain, and the nights when dreams become daggers of the subconscious.

Nope.

Just hid it well, that’s all. About time, too. He WAS fourteen.

But when Dick didn’t smile, Bruce was sad and still didn’t touch him.

Dick didn’t blame him.

Not really.

It’s hard to think about someone else when you’re drowning.

He picked up his fork and speared the broccoli, looking at his mentor.

Pavlov, huh.


End file.
